Kirkland's
by Molebeam
Summary: Enter A.F. Jones, the bubbly, high cheek-boned bartender extraordinaire. Bartender!America AU
1. Scotch on the rocks

Through a cool blue eye, Alfred Jones surveyed Kirkland's from behind the counter, absently wiping a whiskey glass with a well-used white towel. It was nearly 9:30, and as of yet, it was quiet. Patrons never piled in before 10 on principle, and within 30 minutes the doorman refused anyone else entry, as the bar became filled to maximum capacity.

Alfred set the clean glass among the row of others on the mahogany bar counter and picked up another. Under his breath he began to hum a little tune, something he'd heard on the radio this morning. The name escaped him; perhaps Mr. Kirkland would know. His boss, the proprietor, still remained in his office. At 9:45, like clockwork, however, he would emerge, cleanly pressed and serious, walk to the bar, and demand a drink. Honey scotch on the rocks. Always. By now, Alfred had his routine down to a T.

A woman tittered from one of the center tables. François Bonnefroy, the beautiful French escort at the top of local society. And at the top of Mr. Kirkland's list of enemies. She hung around in the bar not only because it was good for her business, but it also chapped Kirkland's hide something fierce. She slipped the olive from her martini between red painted lips elegantly, twirling the small wooden toothpick between her fingers as she listened to her companion. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, energetic Spanish native and long-time friend of François. He dramatically waved his hands, and a few seconds later, both he and François erupted in laughter. She threw her head back, hand pressed to her chest as she laughed, while Antonio pressed a hand to his stomach and guffawed loudly. When the humor had subsided, François leaned in toward Antonio, and whispered animatedly. Gossip, from the eager look on their faces.

Elsewhere, the gentle tones of music drifted from the grand piano in the corner. Roderich Edelstein, Austrian pianist extraordinaire, swayed rhythmically at the bench, beautiful hands flowing over ebony and ivory as he played something smooth and jazzy. Elizaveta, his Hungarian accomplice, leaned against the black lacquered piano top and gazed adoringly as he played. The sparkles of her red dress shimmered in the warm stage light and cast tiny crimson beams onto the side of the piano. She was a singer, much adored by the patrons of the bar and quickly becoming a growing name in music. People loved her energy, the lovely way she danced around on stage to the beat of big band swing music. Together, with Roderich and Gilbert Beilschmidt, rowdy cellist and self-proclaimed "Prussian", they made up heart and soul of the Kirkland's.

Alfred stopped humming and listened to the piano. He smiled: he adored both Roderich and Elizaveta, and he knew Gilbert through is younger brother Matthew. They were a strange, wonderful bunch.

Somewhere behind him a door creaked and he turned. Out walked Arthur Kirkland, the young Brit with too much money after whom the bar was named. He was dressed in a suit the color of rain clouds, a black shirt, and red tie, dirty-blonde hair pushed off his face, eyebrows looking as much like charcoal caterpillars as they ever had.

"Drink," he muttered as he approached the bar. Alfred pushed the gold liquid across the counter. Arthur took a sip, scanned the bar, and frowned. "Who let _him _in here?"

"Who?" Alfred asked, attempting following his boss's gaze.

"Antonio. The Spaniard sharing a table with that bloody battle axe."

Al furrowed his brow. "What's the matter with him? He seemed like a nice guy!"

Arthur took a seat and swirled the ice around in his drink. "Well, for starters, he's _Spanish. _Additionally, he's directly linked to those damned Vargas brothers."

"The Italians?"

Arthur grunted and took another drink. "Messy business, that is. Still prefer them over that hulking Russian, Braginski. Wanker."

"If ya'd keep your nose clean, Artie, y'wouldn't have so many enemies. Nice guys finish last, but at least their black book doesn't span into triple digits."

Arthur drained his glass and pushed it back to Alfred. "Stuff it and get back to work. Guinness, if you don't mind."

"'Guinness is good for you'," Alfred smiled, quoting the sign in between the shelves. Mr. Kirkland had brought it back from Ireland. He filled up a tall mug from the draft, checked the froth, and passed the black beverage to his boss.

"Guinness is good, indeed. Cheers." He drank liberally, then peered at the clock. It was 5 till 10. "It looks like it's about that time, Jones. Er…what's that American phrase you're always saying?"

Alfred beamed and slapped the white rag over his shoulder. "Saddle up, boys!"

* * *

**Whew! First time writing for Hetalia, holla! Inspired by a picture of bartender!America I happened to see on tumblr, I've accidentally fallen in love with this AU. Oops. That said, I may continue this in the future; if you like it, let me know! **


	2. Midnight Highballs

_**11: 36 pm**_

A small crowd had gathered around the bar as Alfred skillfully juggled three silver drink mixers. In awe they gaped as he tossed one above his head and spun two others in one hand, and caught the airborne mixer in the other. He slammed all three on the counter, opened them, and poured them into several glasses that had been lined up within seconds.

A roaring round of applause went up from his spectators. He took two deep, cheesy bows, then passed along the drinks: a sidecars for the gentlemen in blue and white shirts, highball for the old man with the pencil mustache, and a dry appletini for the pretty Belgian girl.

He sent them off with a smile and began to wipe up the droplets that had spilled onto the counter from the shakers. As he did so, a large man in a white shirt took a seat at the bar.

"Howdy! What can I getcha?"

"Beer, please. Just beer."

"Draft or bottle, buddy?"

The man hesitated. "Draft."

Alfred gave a clap. "Comin' right up." As he filled a tall class from the tap, he peered at the man out the corner of his eye. Tall, muscular, pale blonde hair smoothed back evenly against his head. Blue eyes, strong jaw, and looking horribly awkward. Alfred placed the foamy golden beverage on a Union Jack cardboard coaster and slid it over. "Anything else I can get for ya?"

The man shook his head. "No. Thank you."

_Boy, he's a real talker, huh? _Al thought to himself. However, Alfred F. Jones was a natural conversationalist. He loved to talk, though he wasn't always the best at reading the mood. "So, what brings you here tonight?"

He looked up from his beer. "Ah. My older brother, he plays here. In the band." His accent was thick, definitely German. "He wanted me to come tonight."

"Which one's your brother?" Alfred asked.

"Gilbert. Gilbert Beilschmidt. The cellist."

Alfred gave him a toothy smile. "No kidding, huh? Then you must be Luddy, the pilot guy!" He shot out his hand eagerly. "Alfred F. Jones, Kirkland's resident hero of bartending. Nice to meetcha."

"Luddy" was apprehensive, but he cautiously reached out and took Al's hand in a firm shake. "Ludwig. A pleasure."

"You ever heard your bro on that cello? He's amazing! All the boys here are amazing. Well, boys and girl. Lizzie's our little songbird. She's practically our mascot. Sort of. Don't think she'd really appreciate being called a mascot, hahaha!" he chuckled loudly. Ludwig stared at him. "Well, drink up, pal. They start in 5. It's one helluva show, lemme tell you."

Ludwig nodded, then turned toward the stage. Shortly, the lights above the stage began to brighten as the rest dimmed. Brass shone brilliantly as musicians got into position. Gilbert stood by Roderich at the piano, testing the strings on his cello as Roderich stretched his hands. The handsome Austrian stood and held up a hand to the band. They raised their instruments to their lips. He waved his hand once, twice, thrice, and the magic began with the heavy thump of bass drum.

Suddenly the bar came alive with the sounds of big band swing, trumpets blared, clarinets hummed, cymbals clashed, and Gilbert, fingers plucking his strings, began to sway dramatically with the music, grinning broadly. People rose from their tables and clustered before the stage in pairs, twisting and twirling and shaking with one another to the beat.

Behind the bar, Alfred tapped his feet and tried to fight the urge to dance. He failed. Soon he was boogying like a madman in the narrow space between the bar and the shelves loaded with drink bottles, oblivious to everything but his own wild dance moves and the music.

When the song faded out, a cacophony of mad applause and cheering rose up from the dancers and the drinkers. Gilbert, ever the ham, took deep bows, and kissed the neck of his cello like a nurse in Times Square. From his seat, Ludwig clapped civilly, but he was smiling the smile of a proud man. It made Alfred happy.

During the several other sets that followed, Jones was up to his cowlick in orders. Tipsy women cackled in herds at the bar and fluttered their eyelids at Alfred, while tipsy men tried and failed to hit on the tipsy women. By now, he'd worked up a sweat. Bartending wasn't easy.

"Oy, Alley-cat, gimme a tall cold one, and hurry it up. I'm dyin' over here."

"Keep your pants on, Gil! I got my hands full." Alfred shook his head at Gilbert's obnoxious cackle. In a free moment, he filled up another beer glass and sent it over.

"Son of a bitch! West, is that you? You bastard, you made it!"

_Looks like Gilbert found Luddy_, Alfred mused as he fixed up a round of mint juleps. The bar now cleared, he replaced Ludwig's once-again empty glass with a freshly filled one.

"Al, you met my little brother, right? The one I'm always tellin' you about!"

"We've met. Who do you think gave me my beer?" Ludwig asked, giving his brother a stern look. Gilbert ignored him.

"So what'd you think of the show, West? I'm pretty awesome with that cello, huh?"

"Very nice. I enjoyed it."

"It was kickass! I'm telling you, _Bruder,_ you should come more often. Beats working all the time. Gotta let loose; it ain't healthy!" Ludwig sighed. The conversation went the same each time he came to watch Gilbert play. "I got another set to play in a few hours. Lizzie's gonna sing. You remember Lizzie, don't you? You gotta stay for that."

Gilbert rambled on to his brother, talking up his performances with the border-line narcissistic passion of a young musician. Meanwhile, Al started packing dirty glasses into plastic tubs for the soft-spoken Lithuanian busboy, Toris, to pick up. As he did so, he spied Arthur, arms crossed, leaning on the doorjamb of his office, casting a long, suspicious look at Ludwig, before mysteriously disappearing back inside.

Alfred wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

* * *

**I'm not sure where this is going at this point. I'm really not. **

**Also, the song the band played was "Sing, Sing, Sing" by Benny Goodman, one of the more famous songs of the Big Band era. I highly recommend giving it a listen.**


	3. Whiskey in the Wee Hours

**2:53 am**

The bar closed in seven minutes, yet a few people remained.

Gilbert and Ludwig had left about an hour ago; Gilbert had his arm slung around his brother's shoulders, prattling on about every-and-anything, while Ludwig listened passively and periodically nodded.

The band had packed up and left around the same time. Elizaveta ordered a dry martini before leaving. Roderich, at her request, had a beer. They left together, her arm tucked warmly into the crook of Roderich's elbow as she bid goodbye to Alfred and Arthur.

Arthur's powerful stink eye had driven away Francois and Antonio shortly after midnight. In a display of elegant disdain, Francois had turned up her pert nose and sniffed as she walked past. Arthur scowled and muttered something about telling her where to stick that fake nose of hers, but Alfred passed him another Guinness before he could cause a ruckus.

Now the only four remained: a red-haired woman flirting with a much younger man in a dress shirt, a haggard old man with an unshaved face nursing a whiskey in the corner, and a drunk passed out on the bar.

It was now 2:58, and Alfred wiped clean the last glass in the sink and turned to the remaining patrons.

"Alright folks, show's over. The bar's closed. Head on home, now."

Giggling madly, the woman and her young companion stumbled out of the bar arm-in-arm, followed by the man who was down on his luck. The drunk, however, remained comatose. Arthur gave a curt whistle and waved over the tall Swede in charge of escorting out the rabble-rousers. He clapped the man on the back, and when he refused to get up, took him up by the collar and neatly tossed him out into the street. The bar now empty, Mr. Kirkland leaned back against the bar-top.

"Good business tonight." Al mentioned casually, loosening the bow tie around his neck.

"I'll say. Hope they tipped you well enough, for all that damn running you were doing behind the bar."

Alfred shrugged. "Tonight was kiddie shit. I've had worse nights. By the way..." he trailed off, giving his boss a wary glance. "what was up with you and Gil's brother Luddy? If looks could kill you'd be in line for the electric chair right now, Artie."

Arthur sighed and lit a cigarette, organizing his thoughts as he took a deep drag. "Ludwig Beilschmidt. I happen to know that he's involved with one of the Vargas brothers. Feliciano, the bubbly one. I'm not sure how involved; details are pending, but I'm keeping an eye out regardless. And for God's sake stop calling me Artie, you coy bastard."

The bartender leaned forward and rested his chin on his hands. "How come you don't keep an eye on Gilbert?"

"I did, believe you me. It was before your time. Gilbert has a history with Antonio and cheese-eating bitch Francois. When I hired Roderich and Lizzie, Roderich mentioned that he knew a good cellist and asked me to take him on. Told him the only way I would let him into my bar is if he cleaned up his act. In any case, he swears that his "old life" is all behind him. Whether or not I fully believe him is a different story."

As he talked, his cigarette burned up in the ashtray until nothing remained but the wrinkled filter. He checked his watch. They had been sitting here for twenty minutes.

"Christ Jesus, Alfred it's nearly half past three. Get out of here. I'll lock up."

Alfred was skeptical, but, tempted with the promise of home, he relented. "Take it easy, boss. See you tomorrow night."

The final employee left and the bar descended into an easy silence. Arthur fiddled with his lighter absently as thoughts rolled turbulently in his mind.

_Vargas. Beilschmidt. Ludwig. Bonnefoy, Francois. Ivan Braginski. _He mulled, and over him descended an eerie sense of foreboding. Trouble, he feared, was coming to Kirkland's.

* * *

_Ohmigosh i'm so sorry that this story hasn't been updated in months! Writer's block, you know how it is. But I'm gonna try and stick with it this time, I promise! Much love, dearies._


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